The Griffon
by JessicaJ
Summary: Evelyn struggles to adjust to her new title and all of the pressures that go along with it. She was relying on having a sturdy shoulder to lean on, though the owner seems reluctant to let her in. InquisitorxBlackwall Romance


**The Griffon**

"For the wolf in me has always desired the sheep in you."

-0-

Chapter 1. The Inquisitor

Inquisitor.

When she had held aloft that shiny and impossibly heavy sword, she felt as if she were piercing through any glass ceiling that might have previously limited her, Andraste's Herald or no, placing herself high out of reach of the rest of the world. She felt alienated. Distant. Confused.

What was an Inquisitor? And if _she_ didn't know, how was she going to make a good one?

She aimlessly wandered the battlements of the crumbling relic that was Skyhold, peering over the stone parapet to marvel at the brutal geography that surrounded the fortification. Mountains yawned above even the tallest tower, glittering white and beautiful in the dusklight. The valley plummeted below, dark and enticing.

The sun beat down on the stone and yet it did not relinquish its chill.

She shivers.

Evelyn Trevelyan wraps her arms tightly about herself and wonders what exactly an Inquisitor is supposed to do, especially when placed upon such a lofty pedestal as this – is she supposed to be introspective, the lone wolf? Is she meant to voice all of the naïve questions she can already feel building behind her lips? Was she meant to know everything? And if she didn't know, who could she ask?

She was surrounded by advisors and experts in any kind of field imaginable, and yet she had never felt more alone.

Chafing at her thoughts, as she struggled to swallow down the emotion, was the memory of her last conversation with the only person who she might now have sought the company of. He too, had elevated her beyond him, and out of reach. Their mission and purpose was too important for anything to happen between them. He was too old for her. He had his mission and she had hers. Thought she might have agreed in part, she didn't see how being in love could get in the way.

She didn't have the heart to fight, anymore.

She raised her head at a sudden bubble of laughter emanating from what had become the tavern – obviously the first place to be restored to some semblance of habitability. Should she go?

She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, battling with her indecision. Perhaps she could just walk by and gauge the atmosphere for later – it was dusk, and she had a mind to visit her horse in the stables. The quiet creature did not know rabble from royalty, and would butt its nose against her shoulder all the same. She craved familiarity.

Her strides appear purposeful as she descends from the battlements and into the cobbled courtyard overspilling with weeds, piles of rubble and long ago broken beams. With each step the sound of laugher and excitable voices grows louder, and with each step she further rules out going inside. The Inquisition was a people's movement – a movement she was part of, pivotal to; a movement she was leading, Maker! But she wanted to let them to feel part of it without her moping about the Tavern.

She ducks beneath some scaffolding that had been hastily erected to repair a fallen wall, her back to the tavern now, the sounds of human mirth decreasing. Below in the lower courtyard was the skeleton of a wooden barn and some tethering posts. It was here her Ferelden horse (which she affectionately called Mister) was picking absently at the grass that spurted from between the cobbles.

She clucked her tongue in greeting, and the magnificent animal raised its great head, snorting in delight at the sight of her, pawing his hooves on the ground.

"It's sure is good to see you," She sighs, reaching for his nose. It was warm and wet, as expected, and he smelled of hay and sunshine. Smells of better days, before the rebellions, the wars and the Inquisition. Mister (or properly Artemis) snorted and ruffled the flyaway hairs that framed her face. She laughed, reaching up to scratch him behind the ears.

That was when she registered a new sound – what was that scraping noise? Artemis' ears twitched though he did not seem perturbed. She assumed the sound had been going on for some time, else he might have been spooked (as much as any war horse could be, at any rate). Frowning softly, she turned and walked toward the barn where the sound was emanating from.

Metal scraping on wood, broken by an intermitted chip-chip-chip – was that a chisel?

"Hello?" She called out, eyes struggling to adjust to the gloom of the barn after squinting in the dusk light.

"My Lady."

It was only Blackwall. She relaxed instantly.

His broad form comes into focus, hunched over a bench in the depths of the barn. His blue eyes glint in the darkness as her vision adjusts.

"Blackwall? What are you doing all the way out here? Don't you know everyone is in the Tavern?"

"I would ask the same of you, My Lady. Or should I say, Lady Inquisitor now."

She does not respond for a moment, suddenly wondering how much she wants to confess to him. Should she be honest? Should she brush him off, if only to appear indifferent?

She sighs, for what must have been far too many a time that night, and shuffled nearer to Blackwall and his apparent workbench. "What are you doing in here, all by yourself?" She repeats her previous question, grateful he does not repeat his.

"I would ask you the same question," he answers with metered acidity, though she knows he only jests. He stands back to allow her full view of the workbench. "It was just a project, really. Something to do with my hands. It's rather nice, being able to focus on something so menial for a time." He reveals a wooden toy of sorts, in the guise of a griffon. Once a Grey Warden…

She raises a brow at the hands activity part, though she smiles in understanding at the latter. Hadn't she come down to the stables for that exact purpose? To absorb herself in something habitual, something seemingly meaningless for a moment only to escape and avoid the magnitude of the events that had been and those that loomed?

"I believe we are of the same mind," she picks absently at some wooden shavings, enjoying the fresh scent of woodchip. Memories of the workshop back in her ancestral home flood back to her. "I feel rather useless all of a sudden, and all things considered."

"It's been a rough few days, I'll give you that much," he accedes, walking with her to the barn doors. They stand together in the fading dusklight in silence, the sounds of the newly inhabited keep not yet established into normality or routine.

She rubs self-consciously at her arm, recalling the last conversation they had had. It had not been as amicable as this one was. Had that conversation really only been yesterday?

She feels his gaze upon her, though she ignores it, unfocused eyes of hazel watching her horse attempt to reach a scratch upon his back with his nose.

"Inquisitor… I must apologise for my harsh words, when we spoke last. I… they have weighed heavy on my mind these past few nights."

She whets her lips and tries to calm her heartbeat, running a hand through her shoulder length red hair. Blackwall admired the glare the sun gave it. If he was darkness and winter she was dawn and dusk and the falling leaves in Autumn.

"I cannot lie – I have been tormented also. I… I have feelings for you, Blackwall, and I will not deny them."

For what is a world without humanity and all of its flawed emotions, she pondered. Without them, they were no better than Darkspawn.

His expression shifted – he seemed resolute. "If perchance our journey could take us to the Storm Coast… I would ask that you take me with you. There's… I have to explain something."

"Alright… I anticipate planning an initial expedition in the coming days – I never did follow up that lead about Iron Bull and his men."

He laughs softly through his nose. "In the meantime, if you need anything heavy moving, let me know."

She laughs brightly, blissfully aware that she feels better for having their conversation, in spite of its lack of conclusion. "I fear that after seeing Jospehine's plans for my chambers I might need to call you up on that help!"

She gives a soft, involuntary giggle, and he raises his head to consider her from the doorframe. "I'd prefer it if we stuck with 'my Lady', if that's alright. I rather warmed to it."

He chuckled softly, broad arms folded across his chest. "As you wish, _my Lady_." The warm feeling was indeed present alright, and spread from her abdomen to her bosom.

She bids Blackwall goodnight and turns to head up the steady slope out of the courtyard and toward the inner bailey, a smile etched upon her lips.

Her eyes were hazel, though the word itself was not worthy enough. Green shot through with flecks of pure gold; oozed through with amber, the finest whisky shot through with candlelight. Skin as crisp as a frost-covered morning. Delicate freckles, if he dared to look closely enough.

Maker and all his bloody Heralds, that woman would be the undoing of him.

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End file.
